


An increase in resting heart rate is a signal worth watching

by jumpcannon1



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Crush, F/M, just a lot of what's going on in huey's stupid smart head, oh no I think we're more than friends, probably fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 01:58:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16296113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumpcannon1/pseuds/jumpcannon1
Summary: ‘What does supraventricular tachycardia mean?’Huey jerks violently at the soft voice in his ear. He's forgotten that Webby can move like a ninja’s shadow through the world, and now he's paid the price for undertaking less than constant vigilance.‘What are you reading?’ Webby is peering down at his fumbling fingers as he quickly tries to close the book while also marking the page for future reference without creasing any pages. Her breath is warm and her chin is threatening to rest on his shoulder. ‘Is it your heart? Is your heart OK?’His heart is definitely not OK.





	An increase in resting heart rate is a signal worth watching

**Author's Note:**

> I love how Huey and Webby's personalities clash with and compliment each other, and it makes me happy they're such good friends. But I can also see them being more than friends, and had to write something to keep this small ship company.  
> Huey is also a lot of fun to write and this was all good practice. Anyway, thanks for reading!

‘Will you read my fanfiction and tell me what you think of it?’ 

Huey almost jumps in his seat at the question.

Webby has asked this loudly and quickly, with a forwardness bordering on aggression and while he shouldn’t be surprised at her tone he somehow sort of is. 

He’s used to being interrupted and asked for help at any time of day or night, usually his brothers or Launchpad or one of the Beagle Boys calling from an easily traced payphone and putting on a fake voice (Gizmoduck’s never called but there’s still hope). His response has aleays been positive, albeit coated in a guarded suspicion.

But it’s never been one of electric anticipation. 

This reaction he’s feeling must be because he’s been yanked out of his current reading session and has had concentration stolen from him. Even though ‘The Crazy Worlds of Calculus - A Hair Raising Ride with Differential and Integral Derivations’ isn't as fun as its title promised, and it's been a struggle to stay focused and not write a strongly worded email to its writer, editor and publisher pointing out its many boring flaws.

Therefore it's logical as to why his heart rate has spiked. He's fine. He doesn’t feel it, but he is. 

‘Read?’ He asks, to give himself a moment of composure. Most of Webby’s requests could do with an appropriate build up in terms of body language and vocabulary, and the way she’s just asked him is normal for her: loud, direct, and excited that ends on a note of trepidation and did he just say ‘read?’

‘Did you just say _read?'_

How is this happening? It’s time to take control and restart this. 

He carefully bookmarks the page and locks his computer screen. Then he swivels his chair around to face her, ready to come out of the gates swinging but then stops, trips, and has to mentally pick himself up. 

He knows why Webby has asked him for help and not one of the others. 

Dewey would love her writing and be supportive, but then he’ll imagine how it can be made into an epic movie and he’ll slide into his own world and unintentionally make her work his own. Louie would be scathing or sycophantically supportive depending on how he could profit from it, how bored he is, what’s on tv next and how much effort the whole thing would involve. Whereas he, Huey, would devote his full attention and expect nothing back except her happiness.

‘So, fanfiction,’ he repeats, as he crosses his arms hard across his chest. ‘Is this going to be some convoluted story about Uncle Scrooge getting into ridiculous trouble and you're the only one that can rescue him and save the day before the whole world meets its untimely and impossible end?’

Webby’s open mouth freezes in place. 

Huey would normally enjoy this. He’d indulge in the few seconds of smug superiority his sharp insight and quick wit gives him before he moves things on. He's not one to gloat for too long, and doesn't take genuine pleasure in making anyone feel bad about themselves. 

But this time he doesn't. This time he feels uncomfortable that he's making someone else's face falter and eyes glaze over as they hesitantly look inwards at themselves. Maybe his tone was more acidic than he'd intended. Maybe this is a sensitive subject for Webby and he just didn't realize, and he shouldn't have teased at all. Maybe Webby isn't someone he considers just someone and this is the exact moment he's finding it out.

‘Because if that’s the case I already love it!’ Huey says quickly, spreading his arms wide. He makes an effort to make his eagerness effortless, and it's not hard to do because it's the truth. 

‘Really?’

 _‘Really._ I'll only be disappointed if Scrooge doesn’t learn at least two life lessons by the end and then completely ignores them to get a gold coin from a shady trickster which turns out to be cursed. And fake.’

Webby smiles broadly, and he knows he's been forgiven for making her doubt herself for that half fraction of a second. He knows there are greater things to be relieved at, but for the life of him he can’t think of one. 

‘I finished it last night and read it through five times and coloured the front in to put off showing you because I was worried about it. And also because I didn't want to start mass producing copies if they’re only going to be used to start a fire in the basement ha ha, do you want to read it now I think we should go and read it now.’

Webby’s imagination is near unparalleled, and he could do with reading something lighter after the afternoon he's had. He suspects that the article he was just about to click on for fun (Can You Solve This Ancient Riddle? 98% Of The World’s Population Can't) will only make him angry.

‘Yes I want to read it now.’

‘Yes!’ Webby pumps her fist and says this like it’s one of the greatest things the world has to offer and she’s just won it. Her unbridled enthusiasm is infectious, and Huey finds himself smiling back at her. 

He’s often wondered what she’s written about Uncle Scrooge. Especially when they returned from his parents’ castle and she erupted from her catatonic state and spewed out questions and theories and scenarios non-stop. He’d put his hands on her shoulders to calm her down, both to keep the peace in the back because the others were growing irritated but also for her own safety. She was a fizzing ball of bouncing energy and never once took her eyes off of his as she talked like there was no tomorrow. He’d paid attention to all of what she said until the moment she put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself after a pothole in the road made them all lurch and then there’s just static. 

He puts this subsequent lapse of memory down to information overload, and has convinced himself it’s the most logical reason for his brain stuttering into a short circuit. As great as he is with information retention - and he is great, he loves it and has the repository to prove it - he’s not a machine. There was only so much of Webby’s info dump he could absorb before he reached his limit, even though it was reached in less than ten seconds because that's when the pothole was driven into. He’s spent hours soaking up dry history lectures but they’re not the same, and her unmoving hand all the way back home burning through his shirt had nothing to do with it. 

But he can find out about her writing now. The others are off doing whatever it is they’re doing and he’s got time to spare. He watches her stride down the corridor and follows her, and did she just say she was nervous about showing it to him? Did he make that up or is that what she said? Is that what she implied? Maybe he should ask her. Maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe he should stop thinking about this and stop thinking about her which will be difficult, since he’s about to spend time with her alone so maybe he should think about…

Badges. 

He lets out a sigh of relief and feels a lot better. Of course. Badges. Badges will help him. They don't require guesswork or come with the thrilling fear of failure. They come with a clear set of instructions to follow, not interpret. What he might fail at and why it seems thrilling is something else he’s not going to think about, so back to badges. 

Helping her with her writing could help him earn his Junior Proofreader and Semi-Advanced Editor badges. These terms sound interchangeable but they're obviously not. He makes a mental note to remember this absurdity if Webby’s work is supposed to be funny and he’s not making the correct sounds. 

He follows her into her room.

A notebook entitled ‘Scrooge McDuck and the Mystery of the Yellow Lightbulb King’ sits on the middle of her desk. If he ever writes fanfiction he’ll hide it under lock and key in blockchain triplicate, not award it pride of place on a desk that looks like its been recently cleaned and tidied.

‘Ta da!’ Webby says as she stretches out her arms to display her masterpiece. ‘It’s just a first draft which is why I’m asking for your help to read it, edit it, provide constructive criticism but not too much because I think it’s good but it could be better but maybe not?’ She ends on a hesitant hopeful note, as if he might immediately say it’s perfect and is the best thing he’ll ever read. Or maybe he’ll go the other way, and bury her in technical criticisms and suck all the spirit out of her work and watch in detached pity as she slowly deflates.

The thought of choosing that last option feels like a hot wire coiling around his head. 

He makes an promise to never to do that to her, no matter what she’s written. 

He knows when to hold back on delivering raw truths (when Donald cleans the boat with a spring in his step and asks him if he thinks he'll be called back for a second interview at that corporate office), when to dilute them (to Dewey when he asks if the raccoon musical set in outer space he’s spent days creating is any good) and when to release them like a javelin (when Louie sidles up to him when he's brushing his teeth and casually mentions that in some parts of the world it's not considered stealing if no-one gets hurt).

He also decides he’s not going to outright lie to Webby in any form. He isn't great at lying at the best of times when it comes to the important stuff, and when Webby’s on form she’s sharply perceptive. She’s also a documenter, a writer, and an adventurer with a mind so open she risks flying off into the vast sky without assistance, which means giving her a guide rope and never attaching her to an anchor.

Huey blinks. When did he become so wordy? And why did he just use the word ‘wordy’ instead of ‘literary?’ And why hasn’t he responded to her yet? 

Webby rocks back on the heels of her feet. ‘So, what do you think?’

He thinks that she's asked a question that's veered towards the stupid side of pointless. How can he offer an opinion without having read it? Or is she asking for his opinion on the cover? The one she spent last night colouring? He wishes he’d drunk a glass of water or something before he agreed to this. But he’s not going to leave to do that. And he’s not going to offer her a fact without studying the evidence first either. 

‘I'm sure it’s good,’ he reassures her. He looks at the notebook’s cover. It shows a jolly looking yellow light bulb standing atop a pile of shattered red bulbs, which appear to be the remains of dead and dying rebel prisoners. One of them is stretching out a stick thin arm in a desperate plea for help.

‘You know your source material, and it’s going to be way better than anything Dewey or Louie could ever come up with.’

That’s a semi-fact and doesn't count.

‘I think you're a great writer just for creating this in the first place.’

That's an opinion and also doesn't count. 

Webby is grinning like an idiot and maybe he should tone it down a bit. He doesn't want to smother her with compliments and false hope but he’s not doing those things anyway - he's just being himself, and she looks delighted because of it.

Not that he wouldn't shower her with compliments if her work deserves it. He knows the power of positive feedback after all. He'd also compliment her if she's put clear and sustained effort into her story. Or if she's put semi-clear and irregular effort in. Or if she's put any effort in at all. If she's spelt Scrooge's name correctly and can demonstrate how to turn a page then he’d be somehow failing as a Junior Woodchuck and he’s not going to risk that. Small words of praise can go a long way, so maybe he should say another positive thing and she might do that twirling finger thing again which means she's happy but doesn't want to make it obvious and-

‘Oh, kay, chapter one,’ he says as he wrenches his mind back and opens the notebook.

He’s still only on the first page before he senses a movement at his right hand side.

He glances up and sees Webby look away and fiddle with her skirt. He looks back down and finds his place. Three more lines and there’s that feeling he’s being watched again, that he’s the object of impatient anticipation. He doesn’t look at her and concentrates on reading. If she won’t let him read more than a page how can he offer her anything meaningful in return? 

He returns to the story and sinks into it. He’s on the third page now and Scrooge has just discovered the colour code for the bulbs, but he doesn’t understand how the Royal lineage relates to them and what it all means. There’s only one person he can trust right now to help him, and she can only help if she can be freed from the-

‘I come in here soon!’ Webby exclaims, making him jump.

‘Yeah I see that. Or rather I will if I keep reading.’

‘Oh yeah you’ve gotta keep reading. You’ll get to my grand introduction in thirteen seconds if you maintain your current reading speed.’

Current reading speed? Has she been calculating how fast he’s been reading? How has she done that? Has she been...looking at him? Has she been looking at his eyes this entire time as they track her handwritten words across the page with only the occasional flick downwards to plot his progress?

‘Looking forward to it.’ His voice comes out croakier than it should have. He clears his throat and suspects it’s dry as well as hot in here, with the heavy air trapped in her room devoid of moisture but full of something that’s getting under his skin. He wonders if the Junior Woodchuck's Guidebook has something to say about interior humidity control that doesn't begin and end with ‘is your window open to the desired height?’

He continues reading and hopes he isn't coming down with a cold.

Webby’s introduction to the story has too much build up and not enough consistency. Why would Scrooge walk in circles around the hidden entrance to the basement wondering out loud about its location when on the previous page its made clear that he’s the one who built it? And why is he puzzled that Webby’s not in the kitchen when on the second page Mrs. Bleakley explicitly tells him via text that Webby won’t be cooking anything in the kitchen today? Is this supposed to be part of the story’s plot? Or did Webby just forget she wrote this? Maybe Scrooge is meant to have sudden and inexplicable memory loss and Trapped Webby is the root cause of it all. If that's the case then he can relate.

‘What do you think?’ Webby is full of eagerness, and he stutters in silence before he can help it.

She’s at his elbow now, and her left arm is resting on the table in parallel to his right arm. They're both in identical alignment pointing up to the notebook but not touching it or each other. There’s a strange sort of heat radiating off of her, one which makes him want to move both closer and further away. 

‘Yeah it’s good, really good,’ he says quickly, too quickly, as if he hasn't paid any attention and is now going through the accepted motions to placate her.

Webby’s eyes turn into x-ray machines and her voice lowers. ‘Is- is that true? Is that what you really think?’ She leans in towards him, and now he can smell her. 

He makes a mental note to argue with Uncle Scrooge about paying for an air conditioner to be installed in her room, because the amount he's now sweating cannot be normal. 

‘Err..’ he begins as he stalls for time to allow his stupid smart brain to start working. ‘It is good, but- but I guess the only thing I could point out is a teeny tiny factual contradiction relating to the location of Duke Diode in the underground court.’

There's a thick hot second as Webby stands immobile and processes this. 

And then the air breaks and her familiar smile returns and he's never been so relieved in his life that he hasn't upset her.

‘Oh I know what you mean!’ she says. ‘I have him creeping about in the pantry when he should be stealing weapons from the locked vault!’ She smacks her forehead with the palm of her hand. ‘But which weapon vault?’ 

Her eyes glaze over as she mentally re-arranges the puzzle pieces of her story. She shifts shapes and recalibrates their functions to include a newly discovered piece of knowledge. Huey thinks that is one of the most wonderful abilities in existence. He looks at her in admiration, and wishes he could sink into her mind and see what’s making it fire. How do you go from merely listing a fact to absorbing it so completely it becomes part of who you are, he wonders. How do you do that? 

‘I've got it!’ she cries, snapping Huey back to the present. ‘Well I don't have it yet but I will. The vaults are based on the ones in Castle McDuck and I can’t just make a number up that might be contradicted by McDuck fact since I never visited them myself when we visited. I know there's a blueprint from the library that details them and I know where it is and maybe I'll go and get it now I think I’m going to get it now I’ll be right back Huey don’t go anywhere.’

Webby darts away and Huey exhales heavily.

He puts two fingers on his wrist to take his pulse and doesn't like the number he's calculated one single bit.

He's fit and healthy and shouldn't have a resting heart rate that high. It's not a symptom of the common cold or the flu, even if he does have a dry mouth and tight throat and his shirt is sticking to his back. Maybe it's something serious. Maybe the medical section in the Junior Woodchuck's Guidebook can help.

He takes his Guidebook out and flips to the right section, getting sidetracked only twice by the entries for electrical conductors and ‘What to do Before, During and After a Royal Assassination.’

There are rules for how to regulate your breathing when running out of oxygen while scuba diving, how to pace yourself when running up the switchbacks of a mountain, and the Dos and Do Not Dos of treating heat stroke after camping out in the desert.

But nothing for what to do if you're running a temperature when all you're doing is standing next to your friend reading her writing and she's radiating heat and is eagerly anticipating your thoughts because she values your opinion over anyone else's. An exasperated voice at the back of his mind tells him that he already knows the answer, but Huey ignores it and keeps turning pages for something that's been written down and proven.

‘What does supraventricular tachycardia mean?’

Huey jerks violently at the soft voice in his ear. He's forgotten that Webby can move like a ninja’s shadow through the world, and now he's paid the price for undertaking less than constant vigilance.

‘What are you reading?’ Webby is peering down at his fumbling fingers as he quickly tries to close the book while also marking the page for future reference without creasing any pages. Her breath is warm and her chin is threatening to rest on his shoulder. ‘Is it your heart? Is your heart OK?’

His heart is definitely not OK. It’s pushing 150 beats per hour which isn't healthy and he was just about to find out why but now he’ll have to wait. Wait here with her and hopefully not die because he’s failing to diagnose his condition in time even though the answer could be at his fingertips. He’s not going to tell her any of this because he doesn’t want her to worry, even though she’s already worried about him. He swallows. He doesn’t want to make her more worried, yes, that’s why he’s going to forget this ever happened and change the conversation right this very second.

‘So did you get that map?’ 

He jams his book back underneath his hat and feels his elbow connect with something soft. 

‘Blueprint,’ Webby corrects him. She hasn’t backed away and is still right at his shoulder and she didn’t exclaim or complain that he accidentally hit her in the face and now he’s running at 160 beats per hour and he needs to make a will immediately or Louie will somehow inherit all of his possessions.

‘Good,’ he says and immediately regrets it. ‘I mean sorry, sorry for hitting you, that wasn't good but the fact that you got the map is good, I mean schematic, blueprint, even though I knew you'd do it and not just because you told me that's what you were going to do.’

Maybe he'll die right now. Maybe he’ll be able to grab a pen and scribble down his dying wishes as he slowly collapses. He’ll melt into a puddle and Webby will watch on in nothing more than mild interest. 

‘It's OK.’ Her voice gives the impression she's reassuring him about something not related to the accidental elbow strike at all.

He laughs nervously, and wipes both hands on the opposite arm’s shirt sleeve. ‘Let’s see it.’ 

To unroll the document onto the table so they can both see it requires Webby to move to the side. She does so slowly, and takes just as much time unfurling the dark blue scroll and spreading it out. She is meticulous with her documentation and handling of it, and a quick glance at her face tells him she’s been momentarily transported to that place of solitary pride he knows so well. He wonders what her vault looks like, and if he could ever join her there. His back and shoulder suddenly feel cold.

They pore over the blueprint’s lines, and Webby gives him a detailed tour through the castle. He follows her finger and drinks in her voice and learns more than he thought he would about Scrooge’s ancestral home. A small chamber catches his attention and he peers forward and points at it. ‘What’s that?’

Webby leans in to look, but before she can respond he’s making a connection and formulating a theory. ‘Look at those dimensions. They’re out of proportion to the structural walls around it, so maybe it’s the entrance to a hidden chamber...’ Caught up in the mystery and without thinking, he follows the chamber’s corridor and leans across her to point it out. The length of his bare arm presses up against hers. 

He hears what could be a gasp or a loud inhalation from her. He glances up and she takes half a step back, breaking their contact. ‘You OK?’ he asks.

‘Oh yeah,’ she says quickly. ‘Just excited about what that attic could be, ha ha.’ She wipes both hands briskly on her skirt.

It’s not an attic, it’s a chamber. Was she not paying attention to him? 

But the thought of correcting her dies quicker than the speed in which it arrived. She’s fidgeting and looking nervous and he doesn’t know why that could be (he has a hopeful theory as to why but that can also be ignored), so he’s not going to upset her further. But maybe she’s not nervous. Maybe she’s just restless, and wants them to get back to studying her writing. Maybe she’s bored, and the answer to the hidden chamber is a mundane one she figured out ages ago and maybe she’s bored with him.

‘So do you know the vault number you want to use?’ he asks. ‘We could add it right now.’

‘Yes.’ She says this word as if formulating it is costing her a lot of energy. ‘And yes.’

Webby carefully moves the blueprint to the side and pulls the notebook back to them. She finds the section and writes the vault number into the margin. ‘I’ll type this out later,’ she says slowly, both to him and to herself. ‘There might be lots of corrections and this version will become unreadable with scribbled notes everywhere.’

Alongside his own her handwriting is some of the best Huey’s ever seen, so he doubts that. Maybe he should offer a suggestion of his own, and then his handwriting can join hers. His fingers twitch.

They go back to reading the story. 

But this time it’s hard for him to sink back into it. Sharing a room with his brothers forged within him the ability to tune out any background noise or fight or blood curdling scream, so why is he unable to read a story in perfect silence? 

Well it’s not in perfect silence at all, since he can hear Webby’s breathing, her clothes rustling, her fingers rubbing, her feet shuffling, the creak of the floor, her swallowing, her eyelids blinking, and add to that the incessant pounding in his ears it’s a miracle he can read one word over such a cacophony. 

‘Do you want a hint?’ Webby asks him.

‘What?’ His voice is loud and fast and surprises him more than her question.

‘It’s just that you’ve, ah, been on that page for a while now. A long while, I’ve been looking at you and your face is blank but thoughtful but maybe it's bored. It’s definitely somewhere else but not literally somewhere else it’s still here, and when I say I’ve been looking at you I meant to say that I’ve been looking at you.’

Their eyes meet in a lightning strike of mutual horror. 

‘That-’ he begins as Webby splutters ‘I mean-’ and each waits for the other to go on and neither continues and if they both died at least there’d be a mystery for the others to solve.

‘At least there’d be a mystery for the others to solve,’ Huey says, and feels the blood pour out of his face because he’s just said that out loud.

‘You mean if we both died?’ Webby adds instantly. ‘Yeah it would give them something to do before dinner.’

‘It would be a good time killer.’

‘Maybe they’d suspect time _was_ the killer.’

‘Only if they were thinking clearly. Maybe we should take bets when we’re in the afterlife.’

‘Maybe we should write about it! We’ll co-author a fanfiction and publish it anonymously, and our identities will only be revealed through solving a series of progressively deadly clues.’

And just like that they’re back on familiar ground and Huey is sure he’s going to faint at her feet.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I…’ 

He has no idea what to say to her. 

‘...do you?’ Webby repeats quietly. 

This is it. This is his recurring nightmare. His mind has been wiped completely blank and now he’s a drooling vegetable. 

And then the fates take pity and hit him impatiently between the eyes.

A _hint._ That’s what she asked if he wanted.

‘Yes,’ he says decisively. ‘Definitely.’ He’s just admitted he can’t solve what must be a simple clue. If his family find out they’ll disown him. He’ll also be stripped of his badges and sent to the shame tent after being demoted to Prospect. 

He shudders internally. 

‘It’s ok,’ Webby says. ‘That puzzle is tricky. I guess I didn’t write it that well, did I?’

‘Er…’ Whatever answer he gives will be a lie. 

He snaps his eyes back to the page and quickly skim reads the page he’s apparently been gazing dead eyed at. Not only is the puzzle easy to solve, he’s now just figured out the entire story. 

‘You wrote it very well,’ he says. 

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Do you still need that hint?’

‘...’

‘...do you...maybe...want it?’

‘Yes.’

Webby does an awkward shuffle and then she’s by his side again. ‘The clue to the key is a scar on the statue’s hand. Spoiler alert, sorry. It’s a pattern in the shape of a constellation that will lead them to it and it’s on his palm in the center and can you picture it?’

Huey slowly turns his right hand over. His knuckles rest on the cool desk and his palm points towards the sky. He looks down at it, as if the constellation will bloom into life in the cusp of his hand.

‘Can you?’ she repeats. ‘It- I could show you? I think it might be better if I showed you, the pattern’s complex since I made it up and you might not get it right even though you could you know all the stars and maybe I should just describe it better but maybe if I showed you first you could help and…’

He nods, and wonders why his head feels both light and heavy at the same time. He wants to say something along the lines of ‘I’ll tear every even-numbered page out of my guidebook and build you an origami unicorn if you’ll show me,’ but all that comes out of his mouth is a weird throat clearing sound.

Webby hesitates.

That’s out of character for her. That sort of hesitation is a reluctance to step over the edge even though you have a parachute escape plan if things go wrong. It’s a rational fear of the unknown, despite knowing your life won’t be over if it doesn’t hold what you want it to.

‘Could you picture it in your mind without me showing you?’ she whispers. 

Of course he could. 

He shakes his head.

He senses the movement before he feels it, and what he feels is a warm fingertip on the skin of his palm.

Her finger is quickly joined by two more, giving the impression that if she doesn't do this now then she never will. They press down firmly and don’t move for one, two, something seconds it doesn’t matter because time no longer means anything. 

Then her fingers slowly start to trace a pattern on his palm. 

It’s too late to write that will now. 

Webby opens her mouth to no doubt explain the pattern but no words come out. It's as if her plan is faltering, and this is both more exhilarating and so much harder than she had anticipated.

Or maybe she's just building up to the pattern’s reveal, and this means nothing more to her. 

He holds his breath.

Her drawing slows, then slows some more, and then stops.

He silently hears her say in her own mind _There. That’s the pattern._

He nods.

And then her fingers move again. This time all together. This time slower. They steadily crawl upwards along his own. They reach the top, fingertip to fingertip. Then they shift a fraction to the side. Then they begin to slowly slide down between the gaps.

So there'll be no more breathing for him again that's fine, that’s totally fine. He’s had his fair share of the Earth’s oxygen and shouldn’t expect any more.

Her fingertips have finished their controlled collapse and have nowhere else to go. A few seconds or minutes pass. Her thumb rubs the side of his wrist. 

He decides that since he's going to die from a buildup of carbon dioxide, he's going to do it properly. He won’t collapse into a pathetic gasping puddle, and will instead topple over with dignity. His back will be straight and his unblinking eyes will have a serene look in them, as if scanning the far horizon he’s recently conquered. He’ll be a textbook definition of rigour mortis and will die with pride. 

Through the sledgehammer pounding in his ears, he now suspects that she's stopped breathing as well. But he doesn't respond to her. He can't. He has absolutely no idea what to do in this situation. 

The Guidebook might offer him some advice, but he's instantly hit with three reasons not to look through it. One is that he's suffering from total body paralysis, two is that the Guidebook has been irritatingly unhelpful today, and three is that he really does know what his choices to respond to this situation are.

So that just means he has to pick a choice. And that is determined by what he wants to happen and what he thinks _may_ happen between them. The variables of seconds, days, weeks, months and years are so numerous he can't possibly calculate them.

One of her fingers twitch, and he suspects she’s now entering a fatalistic freefall.

Huey finally looks at their hands and thinks hard about it. About the person once again offering their hand out to him to experience the unknown together.

Compiling a list of positives and negative is this situation isn't ideal, but he’s prepared himself for such an emergency. He should start with the impact this would have on the fundamental dynamics between- but before he can get started he crashes to a stop. A part of his mind sweeps away anything analytical and logical and slams one simple question down in their place. What does your gut say? And don’t think about it, just say it.

I like her, is what he answers before he can commit the unforgivable sin of thinking. A lot. But I don’t know-

-yes you do. You know exactly what. So start doing it. And No Thinking.

He feels another one of Webby’s fingers twitch miserably. 

He wants to stabalise himself and spend time thinking about this. But if he does he’ll make her unhappier and it could be too late, so, now he has to make a choice. A bruising punch of time passes and he decides to choose himself. He’s going to continue following the rules. He’s going to follow _his_ rule. He’s not going to think.

He exhales his last lungful of air. 

And slowly, cautiously, he slides his fingers all the way down to the base of her hand and retracts them lightly.

Webby responds instantly, her fingers moving like the final tumblers on a lock to slot their grip into perfect firm place. She holds his hand back hard and everything feels like light. 

They emerge like divers breaking the ocean’s surface (he should have paid more attention to that scuba entry) and make fleeting eye contact and laugh awkwardly and breathe and it's good to be alive.

Before he can think how to break this surprisingly non-awkward silence, Webby bursts out with ‘Did-you-like-the-way-I-tricked-you-into-holding-my-hand-by-showing-you-what-the-pattern-looks-like-even-though-you-could-have-pictured-it-in-your-mind-and-I'm-sorry-about-tricking-you-but-not-really-because-now-we're-here.’

She rattles off her question-apology-explanation in a buckshot spray of panicked hope.

Later on he’ll tell her why he was looking at the guidebook's tachycardia section, but for now he has to try and control a smile that's threatening to break his face. He fails spectacularly. He makes eye contact with her and fights an astonishingly weakened impulse to turn away. 

He then gives her a response that’s slow, and measured, and genuine, and says to her with feeling ‘I like everything about you.’

Webby’s face bursts into a sunbeam, and everything is perfect.

They finish reading the story. There's a heated debate about the benefits of monarchy, the drawbacks of electricity and what could be in the real castle. They plan how to get their unwritten trilogy published, and begin stocking a rich vault of inside jokes.

They talk like an unbroken electric wave, and never once let go of each other’s hand.


End file.
